


oh these holy things

by thescyfychannel



Series: the Father, the Son, and the (un)Holy Ghost [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Altar Sex, Confessional, Hypnotic Language, Inhuman Priest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Priest Kink, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:11:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: Prayer, in the fashion he means it, is a sacrament and a sin.





	oh these holy things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Shame_Basement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shame_Basement/gifts).



> "gibe me some christianity kink baBEY  
> for this one, i'd want dirk paired with any of the other individuals! (but probably not more than one of them unless you really wanna get down and dirty with it)  
> my original idea for this was 'dirk is a priest and the other person is coming in to confess their sins (and getting fucked deep over the altar)' but i'm also very into the idea of priest!signless getting seduced by the too-smart punk kid who sidles into the confessional booth one lazy afternoon. would love some dubcon, but probably not further than that? i'd LOVE it if the sex was framed in the not-dirk person's mind as somehow being holy/repentance. seriously just slap as much christian imagery and symbolism in there as you physically can and ill love it.  
> bonus points for the not-dirk person coming in their pants without being touched, and additional bonus points for dirk quoting the bible at some point during sex!"

"From your lips, the blessed sacrament I take—" Confession is never something you thought you'd look forward to. You're not even saying the right words, you know, you're sure. There's something deeper going on, meaning underlying the words that you don't know, that you can't name. "—a holy sin, the taste of you—"

No. Well.

You know exactly what you're saying, even if the words aren't right: You're relating a dream. It's one of the latest in a thoroughly humiliating, excessive, _descriptive_ scenes, yet another deliberate humiliation created by your own traitor of a mind. A priest. He is a _priest_.

And yet, you can't help but feel that same thrill rolling down your spine as you do when you wake up from the dream. You can't help recreating the whole damn thing in loving detail, to the very priest these nighttime visions have been directed at. "And then," you say, and stall out.

"Then what, my son?"

He's young. You can tell that from his voice, he is _definitely_ younger than you, but you can't for the life of you bring yourself to care. You can't complain about the way he wraps his lips around your name, even if it's only happened (so far) in the privacy of your own had. His voice is tempting, though, a sin, a sacrament, and a tease. He sounds like an angel would, in real life and in your dreams, even as he tempts you into the most sinful of things.

But you're getting distracted. He asked you a question.

"Then y—he spills in me," you say, and maybe your voice might shake. "And I wake."

"I see. You might have some issues, then, no? With a...recurring difficulty?"

That next roll down your spine, no? It's something so smooth, and you're losing yourself, your head, your you—

"My son? Are you still there?"

"Yes—I mean no—I mean—" Flustered already, and from what you can tell, he's barely even moved an inch. Part of you—perhaps maybe you'd hoped—

"Come walk with me," the priest says, and you all but fall out of your seat in your eagerness to do so.

* * *

Father Dirk Strider is almost exactly the man you thought he'd be. There's intelligence in bright orange eyes, a humor and light you weren't expecting to see, and something else. You're not sure what it means.

(oh god. you know what you'd like it to mean. you _truly_ know what you'd like for it to mean.)

"Please, tell me more about these dreams. Attempting to get them off your chest in confessional booth hasn't seemed to be helping you, has it, now?"

That's not the only thing you've considered getting off in the confessional booth, but then, well. At least here you're in the bright and colorful light, streaming in through stained glass and well-tinted panes. It keeps thing in a certain kind of perspective, you think. "I suppose it's...some things weigh a little heavier on you than others. This is one of them for me. Repetitions of such a thing—"

"Perhaps," the priest says, keeping his attention on you and not the way the world seems to turn around his voice, the way light itself pools and waits. "Or then again, perhaps it might be a situation where you cling to what you know, or to a thing you're scared to lose. Have you considered such a thing?"

"I suppose it could be true." You don't want to think about what it might mean if it were, though. "But lust, it's one of the most egregious sins."

"It's one of the cardinal sins," he corrects you gently, one hand settled on your back as he leads you through the blesséd space. It's an odd touch—part of you wants to believe it feels overly familiar. Part of you is sure it's a filial gesture. "Another name for them is the capital vices, but the term I want you to consider here is this one: The seven traits of man."

"What exactly do you mean?"

"Vices are inborn. We live with them, we die with them, we spend a good portion of our lives attempting to be free of them. This doesn't make them any less natural." His hand is gentle on you, as he bends you over the altar. You focus on the sound of his voice, the cadence of his words. "They are a part of us in all we do, and the eternal fight against them is one that we are determined to eventually win."

Sacred things fall from his lips naturally, as he moves them across your burning skin. Holy water to hellfire, you think, before the thought's swept away in the maelstrom of sensation. You feel like an observer, watching everything come to pass with a dispassionate eye. "What would I need to do to win?"

"Continue as you are now," he says, and you feel him spread you, feel cold altar stone against your skin and wonder when he took the time to strip you down. "I will give you respite and aid on your arduous path to virtue."

" _Yes,_ " you say, and you don't even mind that it comes out pitched higher, a close cousin to a gasp, because he's buried himself inside you, heat pouring in as counterpoint to the cold. Each thrust of his hips sends him deeper, the nigh-profane slap of his skin against yours only sanctified by the way it echoes off high stone walls. You want this, more than you've ever wanted anything, want him to burn your sins away from the inside out, want him to hollow every ungodly inch of you for something hallowed's use. You'll take it, all of it—even if it's just him.

"Good," the priest murmurs against your ear. Is it your wild imagination that paints his voice with the undertone of a purr? Are you merely dreaming the way his careful fingertips stroke over the pulse in your throat like a claim? He pulls out again, shoves himself all the way back in, and your dick bounds up to brush the holy stone, to beat back against your trembling thigh, to make itself some mockery of self-flagellation, an impious reflection of a punishment you so rightly deserve. "So very good."

Each breath isn't painful; each breath comes in a gasp. You barely have strength; you feel all thought of power and stability ebbing away. "What else?"

"You're at an altar," he reminds you gently, his hand raking down your side, almost-claws cutting the divine symbols into your skin. "Pray."

You scream instead. You hope—pray—that's okay.


End file.
